


Like Music

by nightfalltwen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Music, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 17:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfalltwen/pseuds/nightfalltwen
Summary: You love her like music.





	Like Music

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **tbranch** for the **2006 hpvalensmut** gift exchange. I think this might have been my first foray into femslash back in 2006. I was in my second year of the the poetry stream of my writing degree, so I think I was having fun with metaphor and simile. Goes to stand that this is not canon compliant.

~*~

Being in love with Pansy Parkinson is like music in the way that no other love you have known has been. This love you have for her has its soft moments, delicate piano moments where there are brief kisses shared in dark corners and whispered niceties long after the glow of release has faded. This love you have for her is a sometimes an opera, powerful and momentous and tragic in the way that operas can be. This love is a rock and roll song with its thumping bass guitar and its screaming lyrics. This love is a chant, a folk melody, a lullaby, an instrumental. This love is music.

You tell her this once over the edge of your book and she laughs. You are pretending to study and pretending not to stare. She is pretending to hate you. You think. You hope.

"This isn't love, Granger." She stands and folds her notes, closes her books. "This is nothing." But when she leaves she slips a paper into your pocket with a time and place.

~*~

"Touch me, Hermione."

Pansy's legs spread wider but you keep your hand still, fingers threaded damp curls between them. Your lips encircle a stiff nipple and tug. You've loved her breasts from the moment this started. They're so unlike your own, yet so similar in their reaction. Her hand slides down the small of your back and you can feel her nails, sharp nails pinch into the flesh of your bottom. It hurts. A little. But not enough for her to win. Your hand stays still.

"Tell me you love me, Pansy." The words whisper from your mouth against her skin. "Tell me you love me. That you're in love with me. That you love me. That you don't just like fucking me." The curse word makes her shiver. "That you _love_ me."

Sweat illuminates in the soft glow of the room. Her upper lip sparkles with it as she smirks. "Do you think that forcing me to say them will make the words more real?" She cups your chin and kisses you, grazing her teeth across your lip until you're certain it might bleed and then how would you explain that to your dorm mates. When she draws back, you're out of breath. She looks smug. "It's not time for that."

Grudgingly you accept that and in turn, nudge your thumb over the slippery nub between her legs, playing her like an instrument until she cries out.

~*~

Weeks pass and it is more of the same thing. You look for some kind of reciprocation in her eyes and try to be patient about it all. She catches you in the corridor and daintily licks the skin on your wrist before heading off to Astronomy. But she doesn't say that she loves you. She corners you in the library and while you're reaching for a book she slides her fingers into your knickers and circles your clit until you nearly collapse against the shelves, shaking and shaking and gripping your fingers on soft tooled leather bound books. Those times are the hardest because you can't scream in the library. Still, she doesn't say that she loves you.

You think this might be country music love and worry because dogs die and wives run away and the open range is lonely and bleak in country music.

~*~

Outside there is a lake and beside the lake is a flat stone where you sit on occasion in order to think. You're considering the future and you can't see the end. You used to know what your plans would be and where you would go and what you would do. And now it's all blank and confusing. Sheet music without the notes. An unfinished symphony.

"You didn't show up." Pansy sits down beside you, arms wrapped around her chest. It's cold. It's February. It's Scotland, what did she expect? Her teeth chatter behind her lips.

"I had other plans," you lie.

"Except you didn't, Hermione. I've watched you sit here for more than an hour."

"These were my plans," you snap and it's another lie. You don't mean to snap, but somehow it comes out that way.

"I don't believe you." Her fingers slide over the edge of your ear. They're ice cold. The fingers, not your ears.

And somewhere along the line you give in because you never seem to be able to say no.

Sex outside, especially in February, is so much different than sex in a warm bed with sheets and blankets and fireplaces. Clothes stay mostly on and fingers are cold and even the heat from exertion doesn't seem to warm them. It's awkward and at the same time completely perfect.

Pansy nudges up your grey wool skirt and nips softly at your thigh. Soft, moist puffs of air spread over your thigh and the outside air sneaks in behind her breath to cool your skin enough to make you gasp and whinge for more. She tugs your knickers to the side and the tip of her tongue slides over you. That impish tip. That tongue. That girl.

She knows what she does to you and exactly how to bring you to the edge. What movements make you jump. What nibbles make you cry out. What suckling makes electricity crackle throughout your body. But you make her stop. Your skin is humming and yet you make her stop.

Soon she is the one whinging and begging and pleading. Your tongue moves differently than hers does, but elicits the same response. She tastes so very Pansy to you and when she's close, because you can always tell by the way she draws her knees up, you pull away and kiss her.

Your fingers replace your tongue and she follows suit, rubbing gently between your legs at first.

As yours speed up, so do hers. You kiss her more urgently and soon, very soon the simultaneous orgasm is a wave that breaks you both.

"Hermione . . ." Pansy whispers. The name is lost against your lips and when it's over you forget to ask her about love.

~*~

On Valentines Day, you find the Great Hall decorated with hearts and piles of chocolates and little winged cupids flying overhead shooting suction-cup arrows at passing students. It's not a holiday you particularly like. Pink has never been your favourite colour and you recall fourth year when Mum sent you those robes for the Yule Ball which you charmed periwinkle to escape the rose coloured lace and ribbons.

The pancakes are shaped like hearts, as is the toast. The House Elves have gone all out.

An owl drops a parcel on your plate and everyone turns to look. There is no note. No card. Not even a label that says from "?" anywhere on it. You don't want to give anyone the wrong impression so you carefully and meticulously peel back the wrapping.

Inside the box are larger versions of those candy hearts that kids would pass around in primary school. Those hearts that said "Be Mine" or "I Love You" or "Sweet" and you're reminded of making paper valentines for your classmates.

These hearts are different. Larger. The same kind of candy, though. There are seven. You take them out one by one.

_I love you like opera_

_I love you like symphonies_

_I love you like rock and roll_

_I love you like lullabies_

Your heart is pounding in your throat and you can feel her looking at you. Eyes burning into the back of your jumper, but you dare not turn around because you're scared you might wake up.

_I love you like chanting_

_I love you like folk songs_

_I love you_

~*~


End file.
